The air was enchanted, electrified with what I can only call the love that moved between the four of us, who had experienced something so other than the war, of such a different order than a world of folly...
The ceilings in the studios had to have been 20 feet high. I loved the corner where I painted, lit by a tall, old window that was stuck closed with time...
Loving the campers was the given. We were in sync. I wasn’t, after all, that much older than they were. I could have passed for one of them, had I worn a camp uniform...
Someone’s singing in the basement. Annie hears it through the floor and feels it in her feet when she puts them on the floor to pull on her slippers...
...the progression of Lillian’s dementia is there, just outside, and I have to encounter this slow, arduous and mysterious passage. Lillian was a painter, as I am.